


girl talk

by cygnes



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Gen, Homophobic Slurs, Non-Graphic Violence, Profanity, gendered slurs, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1317214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnes/pseuds/cygnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from the last few months of Winifred Newandyke's life.</p><p>Or: Laurie Dimmick makes a new friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	girl talk

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted a few months ago on [tumblr](http://manzanas-amargas.tumblr.com/post/71707559298/fic-girl-talk).
> 
> I was thinking about how Orange’s swagger in Reservoir Dogs might have been interpreted differently had the cast been all-female, and ended up writing this.
> 
> As in canon, the Orange/White dynamic is not explicitly romantic but could be interpreted that way.
> 
> Warning for Tarantino levels of profanity, slurs (gendered and homophobic), relatively cis-centric gender discourse surrounding butch/femme presentation, and mentions of child abuse. It’s probably not as violent as it should be, considering the source material, haha.

Winifred Newandyke has been lucky, all things considered. She’s twenty-six and a detective by the time she’s transferred to Vice, which means a lot less fake hustling to catch johns than most of her female colleagues. It helps that she’s short-haired and hatchet-faced. She’s not exactly the kind of girl most guys slow down to holler at, let alone pay for. She goes by Freddie—has since she was a kid—and between that and the hair there’s a lot of joking about “Newandyke the Dyke,” but she lets it roll off her like water. Take it too seriously and people start wondering if they’re right.

Holdaway puts her undercover specifically with Jo Cabot’s crew in mind. They don’t send out a lot of female cops on long-term undercover work, but this is a special case. Holdaway can’t rely on the old boys’ club to recommend someone. Cabot tends to run mostly with women. Her crowd is older, but she’s grooming her daughter Edie to take over when she retires. “Good Girl” Edie’s going to be looking for fresh faces to fill out her contacts, and Freddie fits the bill.

Well, Freddie Newandyke doesn’t fit the bill, but Holdaway cooks up an alias who does. An up-and-comer who started in the drug trade before moving on to some small-scale embezzling, cooking the books for a couple of mob-front businesses. Freddie’s good at math and better at lying, so the assignment suits her just fine. She spends weeks writing up and memorizing the persona.

Janet Lanterman is twenty-four, because Freddie looks young for her age. She was relieved when her father walked out, because it meant she wouldn’t get her ass kicked from here to Sunday for no good reason anymore. Janet eventually started feeling guilty about ever feeling relieved, as her mother started collapsing under the strain of working and looking after Janet alone. And Janet got in a lot of trouble, no matter how hard she tried to keep her head down. She barely finished high school, but finish she did. She calls her mom the third Sunday of every month and makes up stories about how she’s somebody’s secretary and dating a nice boy.

Janet isn’t Freddie, but every lie has to have some truth in it. It makes them easier to remember.

 

—

 

"So there they were—four fuckin’ feds standing around asking me for directions while I had six months’ worth of falsified documents out on my desk in plain sight," says the girl in the leather jacket. "And I’ve got at least fifteen grams in the top drawer, right? Fifteen grams that have definitely crossed state lines. So I’m looking at—Jesus, I don’t even know how long."

It sounds like she’s told this story before. It’s probably her only good story, and Laurie’s willing to bet good money that there were less than four guys, but the kid’s so damn enthusiastic that she can’t help but enjoy the bullshit a little bit.

"Sounds like the beginning of a porno," she says around her cigarette, and Jo and Edie laugh. The girl stammers a little, blushes, and tries to defend herself.

"Hey, do I look like I’ve got any womanly wiles to cash in on?" The girl gestures to herself. Sharp profile, wiry build. Maybe not a porn star, yeah, but there’s a charm to her wry smile. Someone should teach her how to dress herself, though. The kid looks like she’s trying to be James Dean but the effect is more akin to the wannabe bad-boys in Grease.

Laurie’s reserving judgment for the moment. Cabot needs tough birds on her team, and there’s no more qualified judge of that than Laurie Dimmick. Cabot herself had clawed her way to the top over the bodies of her male rivals (her late husband included, according to some), but what she needed to keep her business running smoothly wasn’t ambition. Too much of that would get you put down. She needed women with drive, though.

"I’d be lying if I said I didn’t flash a little cleavage to get out of some tough situations," Laurie says matter-of-factly. "You’ve gotta be judicious about it, though."

"Fuck judicious," Edie laughs, unzipping her tracksuit top and baring the lace of her bra for just a moment. Jo frowns at her daughter but offers no verbal reprimand. Laurie doesn’t understand them. Edie’s going to be a shitty boss if her mother doesn’t teach her some goddamn tact.

"So what happened?" Jo says, examining the french tips of her manicure.

"I offered them coffee while I looked up the address they wanted. Cool as a fuckin’ cucumber. One guy took me up on it, so I poured him some joe. They sat around shooting the shit for a couple of minutes while I got them their directions, and left without so much as a peek at my desk. And—get this—on his way out, one of them looked back and said ‘they don’t pay you enough!’ I thought I was gonna piss myself laughing." The girl smirks and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

“‘Cool as a fuckin’ cucumber,’ huh?” Jo repeats flatly. Laurie can see the kid’s confidence falter for a moment, but she doesn’t budge. “God knows we need some of that, considering some of the clowns we’re working with.”

 

—

 

"Why am I Pink?" one woman grouses. The meeting has been tense up to this point, and the interrupting clearly isn’t helping Cabot’s mood.

"Because you’re a fuckin’ pussy, alright?" Jo snaps.

"And you like pussy," another woman says nonchalantly. "You’re all about the pink." Freddie thinks she’s Blonde, which isn’t really a color the same way everyone else’s names are. Plus, the woman is actually a brunette.

"Well fuck you very much," Pink says. "Pink just doesn’t sound tough, alright? How am I supposed to be intimidating if I’m named after a fuckin’ begonia?"

"You’re not supposed to have to be intimidating," White says. "We go in, we do the job, we get out fast. Your gun does the intimidating for you. No one even hears your stupid goddamn codename."

Pink’s mouth opens and shuts.

"Brown sounds a little too much like shit," the getaway driver pipes up. She’s pretty clearly the most annoying member of the group—probably a friend of Edie’s. Freddie’s honestly pretty close to just smacking her upside the head. She’s almost sure it would make everyone else like her better.

"What is this, an airing of grievances?" Cabot snarls. "You do your fuckin’ job and prove you’re not shit and maybe you’ll get a better alias next time around!"

The rest of the meeting settles into something like professionalism, and White takes her aside as the group is breaking up.

"You’re putting on an act," White says, and Freddie’s heart races. "We can all see it." She looks less homicidal than Freddie would have expected—not even angry, really. "If you think you have to be butch to get in with Cabot’s crowd because we’ve got some old-school dykes, you’re wrong."

Freddie takes a moment to reassess the situation.

"I mean, look at Pink, for Christ’s sake. Lipstick and a different pair of heels every day of the week." White frowns to herself. "Maybe that’s a bad example, too. You don’t have to play to expectations, is what I’m saying."

"I, uh," Freddie starts, but she must look as confused as she feels, because White keeps talking.

"If you really do think this is your thing and you’re trying it out, I’m not judging," White reassures her. "God knows I’m not. Just—focus more on the job and less on showing us what you think we want to see, alright?"

"Right," Freddie agrees. "So…" she forces a grin, "are you saying you don’t like my jacket?"

"Fuckin’ right I don’t," White says, smiling back. "Damn good thing Cabot’s enforcing a dress code."

"The hair’s just practical," Freddie feels compelled to explain. "Easy to take care of. Saves me money on shampoo. And it’s harder to get a hold of in a fight."

"Smart," White says, and Freddie appreciates the approval more than she knows she should. Her own hair is long, graying, pulled back into a sensible braid. "Long hair’s a luxury to me, so I’m going to keep it while I can." At Freddie’s questioning glance, she elaborates: "There was an outbreak of lice when I was on the inside. Easier to shave us than shell out for chemical hair treatment."

Freddie nods and hums her understanding. They’ve migrated out to White’s car by this point. She memorizes the license plate out of habit.

 

—

 

The kid—Orange—looks good in her uniform on the day of the heist. There’s a stillness about her that speaks of depths beyond her showy self-certainty up until now. She has promise, Laurie thinks. She could really be something.

 

—

 

Freddie feels more at home in her plain black suit than she has in any of Janet’s wardrobe. Or her own clothing, for that matter, including her dress blues.

 

—

 

"Who’s a tough bitch?" Laurie hisses pleadingly into Orange’s ear. The younger woman, ashen, smiles wanly.

"You know, Laurie, I don’t think red’s my color." Her voice is thick. Her eyes are glassy. They should’ve left her on a curb by a hospital when they had the chance, but that ship has sailed. Orange knows she’s going to die here. Laurie can tell.

"Come on, come on, say it for me," Laurie says, laying Orange down as gently as she can.

"Me," Orange says, eyes fluttering closed against the pain. "I’m a tough bitch."

"Damn right you are," Laurie affirms.

"Do my ears deceive me, White, or did our friend Orange just say your name?" Blonde enters silent as death.

 

—

 

”I’m sorry,” Freddie rasps. There’s no Janet and no Orange here. There’s barely even any Freddie left, but she means every word.

"I’m so sorry."


End file.
